


They Say It's Your Birthday

by Ariel_x



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Basically, Cunnilingus, F/M, It's Sherlock's birthday, It's a surpirse party and no one gets shot, PWP, Sherlock violin fingers, but Molly gets a gift, oh wait - Sherlock still opens it, sloppy kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 14:25:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3293711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariel_x/pseuds/Ariel_x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's January the 6th.  Baker Street, 221b.  Time to celebrate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Say It's Your Birthday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AllTheBellsInVenice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllTheBellsInVenice/gifts).



> to my dearest Bells, with love. All the filth, with all the pleasure.

*  
John’s former bedroom smelled like any other abandoned space -- of dust mites and damp drapery. It was also cold, but that made it all the more suitable. Sherlock has been using the space to store old case files, and boxes were everywhere -- on the floor, on top of the quilted coverlet, on the ancient chest of drawers, propping a three-legged stool in the corner of the room. An austere armchair by the window was notably empty, but somehow it felt wrong to place the tray with sumptuous birthday cake on its faded cushion. Instead, Molly temporarily put the tray on top of one of the stacked file crates (it was nearly her shoulder level), then lifted an almost empty box off the dresser and moved it to a shorter stack by the bed. 

Downstairs, fussing and bustling went full speed ahead. John texted fifteen minutes ago that they were close to finishing at the Yard, and Mrs. Hudson and Wiggins were hastily arranging trays of biscuits and cheese on the just cleaned kitchen table. Mary was picked to tidy up the sitting room, as one who would be the least likely to incur Sherlock’s wrath. 

Mycroft refused to show, but a few Baker Street Irregulars, a couple of Scotland Yard admirers and a client or two who’ve been amused rather than put off by Sherlock’s methods were expected.

The doorbell went off, Mary fed the fire another log, and the evening of January the sixth, the surprise birthday party for the world’s only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, started.

*  
Sherlock was suitably surprised and, Molly clearly saw, pleased. He endured kisses and hugs from everyone and dutifully drank his champagne. People were mingling, food was being consumed, no one’s been poisoned (yet), and Sherlock actually laughed at the cat flipping into a box video Wiggins showed John. Molly breathed a sigh of relief -- up to the last second she was sure the venture would blow up in their faces.

221b felt unexpectedly small with a dozen and a half people crammed into it. Engrossed in a fascinating conversation with Mr. Northrope, a Egyptologist, Molly lost track of time, and, to her surprise, of Sherlock’s whereabouts. It startled her when Mrs. Hudson, lightly touching her shoulder, whispered, “I think it’s time, dear. I put the candles in the drawer to the left of the sink, matches too.” 

*  
The upstairs spare room was dark, but Molly didn’t want to turn on the light so as not to attract attention. The dresser was just by the door, and the downstairs light would be sufficient, she thought. Molly turned, stepped over to the dresser, lifted the tray and …

...heard the bedroom door shut behind, then a distinct click of the lock. She turned her head, careful not to drop the tray, and saw by the dim light of the streetlamp Sherlock -- hovering just behind her, above her. She whispered his name in surprise and embarrassment, but he very dexterously turned her round. Now she faced him -- standing barefoot (she kicked off her heels downstairs, and tights were too hot in a room heated by eighteen people’s bodies and a roaring fireplace), in her flowing burgundy skirt and a silk black top -- with hands completely occupied by a ridiculously big cake tray -- Sherlock gave her a once over, put his index finger to his lips, and shushed.

Molly's eyes opened wide, and probably her mouth, too. As in a dream, Sherlock dropped to his knees before her, his hands lightly brushed her ankles, then slowly moved from her ankles to her calves, to way up and under her skirt, all the while barely touching the skin of her legs — finally, finally, resting splayed against her inner thighs. Molly forgot she could breathe. Sherlock’s thumbs gently massaged her sensitive skin so very close to a place that was the source — Molly knew — of the heat that rose in her chest, was rising up her neck, on, on all the way up in her cheeks. 

She couldn't take her eyes off his face, angles sharp in near darkness, eyes gleaming, studying her with that famous surgical precision. “May I?” he whispered, and she couldn’t bring herself to speak — so she nodded almost imperceptibly — and Sherlock dove under her skirt, firmly holding her leg with one hand, and moving her knickers aside with the other. She fought to keep her balance, treacherous tray still in her hands -- “Sherlock -- “ she whispered again, and felt his hot breath against her skin -- “shhh!” and then a rumble of his magnificent voice -- “be still.” 

He was slowly caressing, kissing her, the skirt fabric bunched slightly up and around his head and shoulders. She wanted to squeeze her legs together, to get some pressure, something to relieve the overwhelming want that was pooling at her centre, but he gently but firmly guided her thighs slightly apart and held her there. 

He was most thorough with open-mouthed kissing of the most sensitive part of her legs, moving up, to her wet wet pussy. His tongue carefully lapped her outer folds, and she whimpered, jerking slightly. “Steady,” she heard him murmur, “don’t move” -- and she felt his index finger gently part her lips, in a shallow, but definitive move -- once, and then again -- while his soft mouth was kissing just above her opening, around it, sucking on patches of skin, lightly biting. Yes, it was happening, and it was happening to her. 

She was afraid to lose her balance, which was simultaneously arousing and horrifying. But her senses were soon flooded by Sherlock’s ministrations, and the awkward tray in her hands would be the least of her worries. 

While Molly was talking herself into keeping upright, Sherlock took away his finger and instead started assaulting her pussy with his lips and tongue in earnest. His technique was truly inspired, his talented tongue thrusting deeply into her core, exploring her from the inside, his teeth and lips adding spice to its precise caresses. Suddenly, Molly realized that his index finger, so cruelly withdrawn moments before, was now circling her smallest opening. Alarm bells went off inside her head, a true siren, her eyes opened wide and she gulped -- and realized that now she was more aroused than she ever thought possible. Her cunt was sopping wet, and it wasn’t because of Sherlock’s saliva. She was shaking, truly shaking.

“Stop,” she commanded him best she could. His head popped above the skirt, while a gentle hand replaced his lips under it, smoothly running back and forth on the outside of her folds. “You didn’t like it?” suddenly he looked sheepish, his voice was almost timid. 

“Sherlock, I loved it. But I must put this bloody tray down or it will be all over the back of your suit jacket. Please?” He drew back, and she finally put the tray back on the dresser. Her hands were tingling, shaking even. She lowered herself to Sherlock’s level and immediately put her hands into his curls. To steady herself, of course. 

They looked at one another for one short second, and nearly collided into a kiss, a sloppy, wet kiss, an artless, desperate kiss -- she was licking her own juices off of him, and felt delirious. This couldn’t be happening. 

She drew back. “Sherlock. They’ll be wondering where I am. Where the cake is.. And you… it’s _your_ birthday!” -- he smiled -- she could see his lips quirking up in that feral scowl of his. Without warning, he got up, helped her, or, rather, jerked her up as well, then unexpectedly gently led her to sit in the armchair by the window. 

“I will worry about all of that, Molly,” he replied, holding her gaze and lifting her skirt back up. “Indulge me for another moment.”

In a few other moments, she was completely undone, floating, panting, moaning, his fingers still playing her flesh, both of her intimate openings burning with sensation, his mouth roaming the white expanse of her chest (her blouse roughly shoved to under her chin duce knows when). Her hands were still in his hair. “Sherlock, let me,” she said leaning in and kissing his brow, his mouth -- anywhere and everywhere (she saw from the corner of her eye him tearing a wet wipes packet open). But he was smoothing her face, unabashedly smiling again -- “let me get a rain-check on that,” his hands were deftly arranging her blouse, straightening her skirt, and then he caught her wrist in his hand. “Right now,” he kissed her palm, “right now I would much rather extinguish a candle or two.” He produced a small bag of waxy sticks from his pocket -- the one Mrs. Hudson so stealthily hid -- “I don’t really believe in that sort of thing, but today I think there's a rather well-defined wish to make.” 

*  
After only crumbs remained, after all the cheese was gone and champagne glasses emptied, after all the satisfied clients, and present friends, and former neighbors, and proteges, and even the Sherlock Holmes’s never-a-housekeeper left the flat, there were still time left in Sherlock’s special day and someone very special to share it with. 

Sherlock Holmes wasn’t superstitious, but he was very, very lucky. Alas, that’s another story, not limited to that most superfluous of holidays -- a birthday.

**Author's Note:**

> un-betaed, un-britpicked. sorrrrie i types wth erorrrs.
> 
> (but please do leave me kudos, because i am needy and and am very needy and need positive affirmation or else my inner writer shrivels and dies... ooops. no, not really, doesn't die, but shrivel it does, yes).


End file.
